


I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts

by unilocular



Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, Exorcisms, Gen, Tim and Tony meet the Winchesters!, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:58:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10415730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: Tim and Tony set out to arrest a pair of notorious serial killers, but the Winchesters have other plans. To make things even more interesting, throw one pissed off demon into the mix.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am dipping my toes in, oh-so-cautiously, into a new fandom with a crossover. I've seen the first two seasons of Supernatural, so I have a fair grasp on the Winchesters. But it's not nearly as good as the one I have on NCIS. So I apologize for any inconsistencies or OOC moments. This story just wouldn't leave me alone.

From the passenger seat, Tim McGee tries for a better view of where their suspects are supposedly hiding. Even Tony DiNozzo seems too apprehensive to drive up the long, circuitous driveway to the eerie house high on the hill.

Against a sky dripping with the inky purples and angry blues of an early night, the imposing Victorian mansion looms like a feral animal. Broken windows, highlighted by the setting sun, glint like crooked, rotten teeth. The roof on one of the turrets collapses in on itself, unable to bear the weight of the world any longer. In a past life, it might have been a symbol of its owners impossible wealth. Now, it has fallen from grace, doomed to be a hideout for a pair of serial killers.

Tim hazards a glance at Tony, who has his eyes locked on the building. His cheeks are pale, his mouth set in a deep line. He drums his fingers against the wheel, makes a whistling noise through his teeth.

"Why does it have to look like the house from _House on Haunted Hill?"_ Tony whispers, more to himself than Tim.

Tim's brow furrows.

"It's a classic horror movie, McGee."

"I haven't seen it," Tim says, looking back at the house.

"It's not really your genre anyway, McNerd. There aren't any goblins or fairies." When Tim scowls at him, Tony half-laughs. "It's a great film though. Vincent Price invites a bunch of people to stay at his mansion in return for ten grand. Except instead of getting the money, they get dead."

"Interesting." Tim's tone betrays his words.

Tony looks up at the house. "Damn, I feel like I'm really in the movie right now."

"It's just a house, Tony." When he looks back at it, Tim makes a face. "Okay, it's a _really_ creepy one, but it's just a house." A moment later, he adds: "And besides, there is no such thing as ghosts."

Tony nods, unconvinced. "Of course not."

Sighing, Tim reaches for his phone. "Should I call Gibbs?"

After considering their predicament for a long moment, Tony shakes his head. "If we call the boss for nothing, _he'll_ turn us into ghosts. Anyway, we can handle a pair of crazy brothers on our own."

To Tim, calling their suspects—Sam and Dean Winchester— crazy was like saying Gibbs had minor anger problems. The younger one, Sam, had dropped out Stanford to follow join his older brother on a cross-country spree in America' Heartland that amassed warrants in six states, twelve suspected murders, and an untold number of crimes attributed to the duo.

They popped up on NCIS' radar a few days ago, when the team was called to investigate the murder of a Marine—at least, they suspected there was a murder. Ducky had only been able to determine that the pile of black ash left behind had been human, at one point… _maybe_.

Of course, in the middle of it all, Gibbs was taking a few personal days for the first time since Tim joined the team. Desperate to prove himself, Tony would be _damned_ before he called the boss back in from his quality bourbon, boat, and basement time. And Tim really doesn't want to be the one to wreck Gibbs' bender either. Not for something like this.

Tony glances to Tim for support. "Right, McGee?"

Springing to life, Tim nods like a wind-up toy with a nervous laugh. "Yeah, sure. We can handle the Winchesters. You and me. No problem."

With _that_ vote of confidence, Tony points to Charger towards the house and guns the engine. They pass through an old iron gate, rusted and sunbaked to death, that clings to a fence, twisted and gnarled as it bends back to earth. The trek up the steep hill feels like they're climbing to the heavens.

Right beside the house, Tony pulls the Charger right up on the bumper of a black, vintage Impala. Since the Winchester's getaway car is here, the killers can't be far behind. If they have any plans of a quick escape, they'll have to go through the Navy car. And if rumors are to be believed, Dean would never risk the damage to his beloved car.

_He'd probably kill me and Tony for the keys to the Charger._

Swallowing audibly, Tim fumbles with the collar of his shirt.

From the road, the house looked eerie and run-down. Up close, it is even worse. The siding, once a deep and rich blue, has offered up its color to the sun over the years. The intricate scroll work on the wraparound porch is broken and missing sections, the other bits ravaged by termites and the weather. The broken bits of glass in the windows wink with the oranges and yellows of the dying sun.

In one of the top floor windows, a blank face stares down at them. From the car, Tim can't make out any features on it. Dirt on the window, he tells himself. Then, it vanishes right before his eyes.

His stomach lurches.

"Last chance, Probie." Tony's tone is soft, forgiving, lenient.

For a moment, Tim half-expects an insult. When it doesn't come, he realizes just how screwed they are. About to go into freaking haunted house after a pair of serial killers. If the Winchesters don't carve them up like Thanksgiving turkeys, the ghosts will rip them limb from limb.

_There_ is _no such thing as ghosts._

Unholstering his Sig, Tony gives Tim a poignant look as though to give him an out. As though to say _just admit that you're a big, fat chicken so we can get the hell out of here._

Tim pulls out his own weapon. "Ready, Venkman?"

"You with the movie reference, McGhostbuster?" Tony's eyebrows jump with surprise. "Hm. I guess that makes me Bill Murray. Not a bad choice. So you'd probably be Egon or – " he shoots Tim a sideways glance " – the StayPuft Marshmallow Man."

Tim just rolls his eyes.

Without giving Tony a chance to speak, Tim climbs out of the car. A light breeze brushes past him, sweeping across the knee-high grass, making it bend and twist and bow to its will. It flirts with the tails of Tim's trench coat as he stares up at the house again. That face is back in the window. His heart races.

"Earth to McGee," Tony calls, sounding like he's on another planet. "Are you even listening?"

"Yeah, I am." Tim blinks, then points at the house. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Someone's watching us." When Tim points to the window, Tony shields his eyes for a better look. Of course, it's empty. "Was watching us."

Tony quirks a grin. "And here I thought there was no such thing as ghosts."

"There aren't," Tim says, annoyed. "But the Winchesters – "

"Will _know_ we're coming if we stay out here chit-chatting."

"Okay, fine." Tim throws his free hand up. "I'll head around back."

Over the top of the Charger, Tony's face turns panicked. "And send me in the front door by myself? _Oh_ _hell no_." Toying with his suit-jacket, he takes a moment to compose himself. "I mean, it makes more sense for us to stick together. You know, with the Winchesters and all."

Tim half-smiles. "Of course, it does."

Tony shrugs. "Unless you want me to go around back."

That hangs between them for a moment until Tim says: "I don't think so."

Tony's grin says _Aha, I knew it._ Tim just rolls his eyes.

"Alright, McGee, we go in the front door together. Stay close and watch your six."

Tim nods resolutely. "Right."

When Tony dips his head towards the house, Tim leads the way across the footpath that has been worn through the grass. From the looks of things, the Winchesters—or someone else—have been hiding here for quite some time. Tim and Tony head up the porch steps that bow under their weight as though they might fall through the floor.

They pause by the front door. Tim leans against the rotting siding, right hand on the door knob, while Tony stands, weapon-raised. After a quick nod from Tony, Tim pushes open the door. Its moan might as well be loud enough to wake the dead. Tim tries not to consider the irony.

Tony sneaks into the foyer first.

Inside, the house is like a time capsule from the Victorian era. Deep crimson wallpaper, peeling off the walls in sheets, rustle in the wind from the open door. A grand, curved staircase with rich, dark wood pillars reminds Tim of the luxurious home this once was. Some ceiling plaster lands in Tim's hair, but he doesn't bother to chase it away.

The air is thick with the scent of dust, mildew, rotting wood, and damp earth. Tim hold his breath.

Moving on the balls of his feet, Tim stays glued to Tony's six as they move deeper into the house. Through the sitting room with antique settees and chaises, left to rot, and a dining room still set for a dinner service for sixteen that has turned to cobwebs and dust.

It isn't until the parlor that they find the first sign of life.

Sam Winchester stands by a fireplace, poking at the roaring embers. An unnerving glow commands the room as the shadows stretch across the serial killer.

Tim steps forward. "Federal agents. Drop the weapon."

Turning towards them, Sam's smile is easy, non-threatening, bordering on genial. He drops the metal poker and raises his hands.

By all accounts, he looks like a typical college kid. Dark yellow, zip-up hoodie and blue jeans with wispy blonde hair and an honest, wholesome face. Instead of breaking the law, the only thing he should be breaking is hearts.

"Oh, geez, it looks like you two caught me," he says, Midwestern accent dripping from his voice.

Tim reaches for his handcuffs, _almost_ puts his weapon away so he can neutralize the suspect. But Tony is smart enough to know when they're being played.

"Where's your brother?" he growls.

Behind them, there is the click of a shotgun. Then a low, gravelly voice replies, "Right here."

Tim's heart falls straight into his stomach.

_Fuck. We're so dead._

When he hazards a glance over his shoulder, Tim is surprised by how different Dean Winchester looks than his brother. Despite only being a few years older, the age gap by looks alone is decades. His face is hard, deep lines set around his mouth and forehead like he spends his life wearing a permanent grimace. And he is _short._ At least half a head less than Tim and Tony; a full head from Sam.

Tim swallows hard, not quite ready to be sacrificed in one of those ritualistic executions that the Winchesters are known for. While he might not be religious at all—or even know what he believes these days—he _sure as shit_ doesn't want to be offered up to Satan or Zoroaster or a couch cushion or whatever the fuck these two worship.

Beside him, Tony is grinning like the whole thing is absolutely hilarious. Tim wants to remind him that they've just been caught. By a pair of serial killers.

"Drop the guns," Dean orders.

Both Tim and Tony place their weapons on the floor, then kick them away. Sam scoops the guns up, surveying them in the dim light from the fireplace.

"Sig Sauers," Sam says, sounding slightly impressed.

"Ah, G-men." Dean laughs. "Where are you two from? FBI? NSA? FDA?"

"NCIS," Tim says, hoping it doesn't earn him an ass full of buckshot.

"Oh, that's a good one. Navy Cops. I bet no one's ever heard of it."

Sam tilts his head, glances to his brother. "Maybe we should try using that agency next time?"

Dean nods his assent.

Tim swallows hard. Great, now they're planning to use his and Tony's IDs on their cross-country killing spree. Why couldn't they just wait to discuss their plans _after_ he and Tony were dead?

_Damn it._

"Now, what brings you two sniffing around us?" Dean asks.

"Staff Sergeant Michael Palin," Tim answers.

Dean wears a stone face as he shrugs with one shoulder.

Tim tries a different tactic. "The guy you turned into a pile of dust."

Dean shrugs again.

"The vessel for the shedim," Sam clarifies. "Before it escaped and came here."

"Oh." One corner of Dean's mouth quirks into a half-smile. "Sorry, I guess. We didn't mean to leave you a mess. Did you need some help cleaning it up?"

Tim gapes at them. When he speaks up, his voice jumps an octave: "You murdered someone, but you didn't mean to – "

"Hey, I've got a question," Tony suddenly interrupts before Tim gets them both killed.

Dean scoffs. "Okay, Chief, shoot."

"Which one of you is the Gatekeeper?" Tony asks, plastering on his best shit-eating grin.

Dean tightens his grip on the gun. "What in _the hell_ are you talking about?"

"It's from _Ghostbusters."_ By the looks of things, Sam genuinely smiles. "You know, Dean, that movie I keep telling you about."

Rolling his eyes like he heard it all before, Dean closes his eyes. "Yeah, I know. You've told me all about it. That's the one with the three guys that go around and blast ghosts with their photon – "

"Proton," Tony and Sam correct in unison.

"Whatever," Dean says. "It's nothing like reality. Where _I_ live."

Sam chuckles. "It's a movie, Dean. It's meant to be enjoyable. Fun. Do you remember what that is?"

"Yes, Sammy, I happen to know…"

And when the brothers dissolve into a childish argument, Tony takes advantage of the distraction. He flings his body backwards, using one hand to force the shotgun to the side while ramming his elbow into Dean's gut. Even with has the element of surprise, Tony doesn't stand a chance.

Deal whirls around, using the shotgun's momentum to send Tony stumbling into the dining room. Tony backpedals, arms pinwheeling and eyes wide until he loses his balance. He slams on the floor with a resounding thud.

Just as Dean goes to raise the weapon, Tim throws himself forward. He only makes it a few steps before Sam picks him clean off the ground, hustling him towards the dining room. Tim bucks and twists against the hold, but he only ends up tossed on the floor beside Tony. He lands flat on his face, momentarily stunned. He gets to his knees just in time for the door to slam closed.

The lock clicking in place echoes ominously.

Tim tries to keep his panic in check. Tries to go to his happy place. Tries to stop his mind from racing, his hands from shaking, his heart from galloping. Tries not to let himself think that he and Tony have just been taken hostage by freaking serial killers.

He has his cell phone out in an instant. _No service._

"Tony, my phone isn't working," Tim says, sounding as anxious as he _feels._

Tony checks his. "Mine isn't either. Damn it!" He yanks and jerks on the door, but it only rattles on the hinges. Then he slams his fist against it. "Son of a bitch. Those dirt bags locked us in here."

Tim meets Tony's earnest eyes. "What do we do now, Tony?"

"Try to find a way out of here." He goes for an easy grin, but fails miserably. "And if not, we hope that Zuul is satisfied."


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as they realize the door won't budge, Tim and Tony set off in different directions on very different tasks. After grabbing a steak knife off the table, Tim crouches to pry the door open. He jimmies the blade between the frame and wood, attempting to force them apart. All he manages to do is repeatedly slip off the hilt and slice his palm open. He curses under his breath. Blood drips on the floor.

Across the room, Tony pokes around the fireplace mantle. The huge, dark wood piece juts out of the paneling like a leviathan trying to escape an ocean of built-ins and bookcases. Extending from the hearth to the ceiling, it takes up most of the available space on that side of the dining room. Tony carefully runs his fingers over the accent details—little cornucopias and grape bunches connected by tree branches carved as a relief in the wood.

Of course, Tony would be admiring the décor instead of helping Tim escape from the serial killers that were probably out there setting up for their murder.

"What are you doing, Tony?" Tim's tone is far less annoyed than he intends.

"Trying to get us out of here," Tony says as though it explains everything.

Tim climbs to his feet. _"_ By touching with the wall?"

"By trying to find the way to open the secret passage."

Tim blinks. Cocks his head. Makes a face. "The _what?"_

"The secret passage," Tony repeats slowly. Like Tim didn't hear it the first time.

Tim rolls his eyes inwardly. "And what makes you think there is one of those here?"

Leaning against the fireplace, Tony places his hand against the seam on the mantle and the wall. "There's a slight draft coming from here and – " he gestures to towards the floor " –there's a wear track that could only be made if the mantle opened." His eyes glint with excitement in the low light. "Plus, there are _always_ secret tunnels in houses like this. All I need to do is find the button that opens the fireplace and we're be home free. No Winchesters involved."

"Where'd you learn that?" Tim quirks an eyebrow. "From the movies?"

Tony's eyes dart this way and that. Anywhere to avoid Tim's deepening scowl. "It's how the killer moved around in _Thirteen Ghosts_ and _Ten Little Indians_ and – "

"Do you really think that since we're trapped in a house with a pair of killers that there should be a secret passage to help us escape?" Tim surmises, unable to believe what he heard.

Tony just half-shrugs. "Why not? It makes sense."

At that moment, Tim is pretty sure that Tony has gone _completely_ insane. Maybe the senior agent hit his head harder on the parquet floor than Tim originally thought. Or perhaps, the air isn't thick with dust, but with toxic mold that causes hallucinations and delusions. But then again, Tony always did live just on the edge where films blurred into reality. Maybe now, the thin thread that connected the two finally snapped, pitching Tony straight into a Hollywood fantasy world.

_I bet Gibbs' head slaps finally scrambled his brain. Now, I'm going to have to listen to Tony quote a movie while the Winchesters sacrifice us to their car. Knowing my luck, it'll be something crappy like_ Gigli.

Tim's eyelid twitches.

_This is_ so _not how I wanted to die._

Tony points to a tarnished brass wall sconce. Holding his hand out like a game show host, Tony uses it to frame the light fixture. He grins broadly as though something exciting is about to happen.

Tim crosses his arms, nods to tell him to get on with it.

"Watch this, McSkeptic," Tony says with a flourish.

Then he gives the sconce a pull.

Tim tries so _freaking_ had to give Tony the benefit of the doubt. He uncrosses his arms, puts one hand on his hip. Shifts his weight from side to side. Works his jaw while he grinds his teeth. He goes for a deep, calming breath, but it comes as a pissed and agitated huff.

"Maybe it's just jammed," Tony offers.

With his smile never wavering, Tony yanks on the light fixture again. He puts one foot up on the wall, throws his weight behind the movement. He pulls so hard his grip slips and he stumbles back a step.

But still, nothing happens.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tim mutters a curse into the palm of his hand. He counts to ten—and then, to twenty—but he still can't grasp that elusive peace that escapes him. He is being held hostage by a pair of serial killers. With a delusional partner, who seems to think that a secret passage is their only way out of here. Instead of the locked door that lead them in here.

The lights flicker, dipping the world around them into pitch darkness for a split-second.

Tim's heart twists into his throat.

_And I don't even want to think about the ghosts._

Tim shakes his head at himself. He really needs to stop listening to Tony about these freaking movies.

_There is no such thing as ghosts._

Of course, Tony's hare-brained scheme wasn't—isn't—going to work. As though he just can't abandon the thought of a secret passage, Tony moves onto the bookshelves. He begins tossing the books, picture frames, and knick-knacks on the floor in hopes of finding the way out.

Rolling his eyes, Tim turns around. "When you feel like joining me in the real world, Tony, I'll be getting us out over here. You know, through the door that leads back to the house."

When Tony doesn't reply, Tim makes a face. He works the steak knife back into the door jamb again. Just as he starts to twist it, a wisp of black smoke slithers through the space. He takes a deep breath, surprised by the sulfuric burn of rotten eggs on his tongue.

Instantly, Tim is on his feet, backpedaling.

"Tony, there's a fire!" Tim yelps.

When Tony rushes to join him, they pause by the table to contemplate their fate. Locked in a room with no windows in a house that's burning down. If _this_ doesn't get Tony to help Tim, nothing will.

The smoke moves strangely, undulating and dancing on the air. Like ripples in still water broken by a thrown rock. It almost seems to pause by the door as though examining the small pool of blood on the floor from Tim's earlier attempts at freedom. Then it slowly billows, spreading out, as it grows closer.

_There is no such thing as ghosts._

Tony chokes out a gurgle. "I don't think that's smoke."

Tim just stands there, completely frozen. His heart races in his chest, leaving his head to pound in time with that _whoosh whoosh_ in his ears. Every part of him wants to run, to get the hell out of here. To tell Tony that something is wrong, really _freaking_ wrong. Hell, he would even take panic or a scream.

But underneath the fear, an odd calm drags him down until he feels like he is underwater. He can't move, can't find his voice. And now, he can't even drum up the care to try and escape.

He is a spectator in his own body. Watching this _thing_ sweep towards him.

Right by his feet, the smoke begins to gradually take form. The head of a snake, complete with blood red eyes and wispy grey-underbelly, rises in front of Tim. It opens his mouth, display its fangs.

Tim's blood turns to ice. Why can't he _fucking_ move?

_Ghost aren't –_

"McGee! Get out of the way!" Tony yells.

At that moment, Tony barrels, full-force, into Tim. The hit sends him stumbling, arms and legs flailing until he lands with a _thud._ Pain rockets up his right shoulder. He rolls to his side, just in time to see the man-sized, transparent smoke-snake rear back before it lunges at Tony. While it is seemingly absorbed into the senior agent, Tony curls into himself, clutching his chest.

Tim's stomach drops.

"Tony? Are you okay?" Tim asks, not caring how hysterical he sounds right now.

Tony doesn't reply.

"What the hell was that? Where did it go?" Tim's hand curls around the steak knife by his side.

With his back to Tim, Tony slowly straightens up. He stares intently at the back of his hands, flexing his fingers as though seeing them for the first time. Then he rubs the lapels of his jacket before mussing up his already windswept hair. He hisses through his teeth.

Tim cautiously climbs to his feet. "Tony…"

When Tony glances over his shoulder, his motions are jerky and erratic like someone not quite accustomed to their body anymore. At the sight of Tim, his face contorts into a cruel smile that is all teeth. Much like a shark before it feasts. His hazel eyes have gone black with night.

"Tony?" Tim swallows audibly. "What's – "

"Ah, Timothy." Tony's voice is deeper and coarser that usual. "You were the one I meant to inhabit, but old Anthony here had to play the hero like usual." That smile grows nastier. "It might not be what I had intended, but it will suffice."

Somehow, Tim's heart beats even harder. Raw terror gnaws deep within his chest. Cold sweat blossoms at the small of his back, working its way through this shirt. Suddenly, the room is too hot to bear. The air grows too thick with dust and century-old ash and death for Tim to even take a breath. He can't inhale because his lungs don't seem to want the oxygen.

_What's wrong with Tony?_

In his shaking hands, Tim still clutches the steak knife. He raises it for a half-second before he thinks better of it. What the hell is he doing threatening his partner—his friend—with a weapon?

Tony chuckles. It's throaty and vicious, a sound unlike anything Tony has ever made before.

_That is still Tony. Right?_

Tim's lips curl in fear. His knuckles go white against the knife.

_There is no such thing as ghosts._

Tony laughs.

And suddenly, the knife flies out of Tim's hand as if under its own energy. It ends up across the room, buried to the hilt in one of the cornucopias on the fireplace. Tim's wide eyes bounce from the weapon to Tony, and back again.

"I didn't…" He fumbles. "I didn't _do_ that."

Tony half-smiles. "You still do not understand, Timothy?"

Before Tim has a chance to respond, he feels himself rise off the ground as though he is suspended from the ceiling. It feels as though a pair of hands clutch the front of his shirt. He barely manages to whisper, "oh shit," before an unseen energy tosses him through the air like a piece of trash in a hurricane. He slams onto the dinner table, sending plates and flatware and decorations flying as he is drug across the surface. He claws and writhes at the invisible hands, but it doesn't help. He ends up pinned against the wall by the fireplace, his feet a few inches off the floor.

Tim barely breathes.

Smirking that horrid smile again, Tony slinks towards him. His movements are easy now. Gliding and slithering as though he doesn't even use his feet at all.

Tony stops to evaluate Tim. "While you are correct about the existence of specters, Timothy. Perhaps you should consider that there are other beings beyond your human understanding."

"Like?" Tim rasps.

Tony shrugs. "Me."

Tim's gaze drifts upwards towards a crystal chandelier hangs with winking candle lights and mirrored gems. In their swaying reflection, Tim only notices himself. It's as if Tony isn't even there.

_Fuck, he's a vampire._

"Really? You think _they_ exist?" Tony chortles, low and deadly. "Nice try, Timothy. I guess even a skeptic such as yourself can't come to believe in a demon when he is about to kill you."

Tim can't find his voice.

He wants to beg Tony to knock off the charade. He wants to tell Tony that he is scared out of his damned mind. That Tony is the master of all pranks, king of the office, and the boss when Gibbs is nowhere to be found. That he'll kowtow to Tony's ridiculous movie theories if he _just stops,_ if he just lets everything go back to fucking normal.

When he looks down into Tony's soulless eyes, Tim doesn't think anything will ever be normal again.

Tony smirks. "Now, you understand."

Tim thrashes against the energy holding him against the wall. And at that moment, the weight lifts and he drops to the floor like a stone. He collapses to his knees, hands around his throat and gasping. The air feels good and cool as it fills his lungs.

He doesn't get a chance to catch his breath when Tony tilts his head. That unseen energy seizes Tim by the neck and once again, he is flung across the room. His back slams into the bookshelves, crushing them under his body. He falls to the floor, aching in more places than he knew possible. His head pounds with its own heartbeat. After he gingerly checks the area, his fingers are slick with blood.

_Shit._

Tony draws closer.

Tim tries to run, but he just goes flying face first into the wall. This time, the impact rattles his teeth, his bones, his brain. He crumples to the ground, groaning. When he starts to push himself up, his hands find a large carving knife in the debris. As he stands up, he clutches the weapon. He holds his ground on unsteady legs while the world begins to dip and twirl before his eyes.

Keeping his distance, Tony displays that feral smirk. "So, Timothy, you are ready to turn on your friend. Perhaps our time together will be more interesting than I had originally thought."

At the thought of attacking his partner—Tony—Tim wavers. The knife clatters to the floor.

Tony frowns deeply. "It seems I was mistaken."

Tim takes off, feet slapping against the parquet tiles. But there is _nowhere_ to go. The door is still locked. There aren't any windows to jump through. Tony—the real one—never found that freaking secret passage he swore up and down existed. Tim is trapped in a room with _something_ that looks a hell of a lot like Tony that seems intent on beating him to death.

_What is going on? What the hell is that_ thing _?_

That energy catches him again, turning his body leaden.

_There is no such thing as ghosts._

"Again, you assume I am a simple specter," Tony says, more statement than question.

Tim closes his eyes, readying to be thrown into the wall like a discarded toy by a pissed off toddler.

Before that happens, the locked door flings open. It cracks against the wall hard enough to knock an oil painting of a flower pot from the wall. The frame splits in two, the picture flagging from the impact.

And then, the Winchesters rush in.

_Great, it looks like we're going to have a party._

Dean holds his shotgun at shoulder level, eyes glaring over the barrel, while Sam clutches a leather-bound book that looks like it's held together by masking tape and prayers. Gone are the affable college kid and his wise-cracking, rough-and-tumble brother. In their place are the hardened and terrifying serial killers that Tim and Tony were hunting.

Tim doesn't move. _Can't move._ He just stands there, mid-step, body leaned forward like a sprinter on the starting line.

Tony is by the fireplace, arms crossed and grinning.

Sam makes a huffing noise. "That shedim _is_ in here, Dean. I can feel its energy."

"That's what you said in the last room, Sammy," Dean snaps.

"This time, I'm right."

"This time, he _is_ right," Tony retorts sarcastically.

Dean's aim swings for Tony. "Damned demon turned one of the feds into a meatsuit."

Sam's eyes grow wide as he looks to Dean.

With a scowl taking over his face, Dean grits his teeth. "I know, Sammy, I know. We'll try not to destroy it like the last one. But I make no promises."

"If you do, Gibbs will _kill_ you."

"He won't be the only one gunnin' for me." Dean grins like multiple people out to murder him is a badge of honor.

Tim wants to ask them why they called Tony a meatsuit, how they know Gibbs, _what is going on._ But his voice won't work again. He might as well be a statue, a silent observer of the unfolding scene.

When Dean doubles down on his grip, Sam slips in front of the barrel. Then he carefully opens the book. He flips through the pages, considering and skimming before he settles on one. He pulls himself to his full height as he levels a menacing glare at Tony.

Tony watches them, expectant and interested. The corners of his lips twitch in amusement.

Sam recites, " _Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fer – "_

"Nice try," Tony says, his voice echoing throughout the house.

And suddenly, Dean and Sam go flying in opposite directions. On his way, Sam drops the book and loose papers flutter out of it like leaves riding an autumn breeze. The brothers end up pinned against the wall like Tim was earlier.

And with that, the energy seems to loosen its hold on Tim. He flexes his hands, moves his toes around his shoes, but that's about it. But now, he has his voice back.

"What's going on?" he shouts.

Dean releases a strangled laugh. "Demon possessed your friend, Sparky. Just like he killed your dead guy before we torched the meatsuit."

Tim gapes. Then a moment later, he asks: _"What?"_

Dean bucks against the hold as though he'd rather smack some sense into Tim as opposed to fight the demon about to kill them. Then, on second look, it appears that he's working to get at something on the waistband of his belt. Maybe a holster?

"Sammy!" he yells. "We need that book!"

"I'm trying, Dean." He grunts from the effort. "I'm trying."

"Then try harder!"

After seeming to determine that the Winchesters are no threat, Tony turns his attention back to Tim. Almost instantly, the energy holding him still dissipates. Tim stumbles a few steps until he catches his balance. He settles into his stance, looks back at what used to be his friend.

The scraps of light dance in the black of Tony's eyes. His face twists with brutality and malice as though it's the only thing it's ever known. Even though Tony still looks like Tony, it's undeniable that Dean is right. Whatever is in there wears Tony like one of his designer suits.

Tim's pulse ramps up. His eyes skirt towards the open door.

Tony smirks again. "Run, Timothy. Run."


	3. Chapter 3

Tim runs. Of course, he fucking runs.

Dean's exasperated voice carries behind him. "Why do they always run?"

Tim bolts out of the dining room, tripping and stumbling over his own feet. He heads straight for the front door, slamming bodily into it. All he manages to do is rattle the hinges. He turns the knob, throws his shoulder against it, but the door doesn't budge. It's barricaded from the outside.

Tim slowly turns around. He leans against the door, hands pressed flat against the rough wood. His heart races, his strident breaths catch in his throat.

Tony—or whatever the hell that is—isn't anywhere to be seen, but it won't be long until he catches up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches movement. He doesn't stick around to see what it is. He cuts to the right, delving into a part of the house he and Tony's didn't investigate earlier. Old furniture covered in grey-white sheets and spotted silver mirrors in gilded gold frames whip past him in the near dark. The only source of light is the faded sunlight trickling through the grimy windows.

Tim's foot catches on something. He staggers, barely regaining his balance. He barrels into a set of double doors that lead into the parlor where they found Sam earlier. Since they left, the fire has dipped to nothing but smoldering embers. The logs are gone to ash.

In the low light, Tim notices something he and Tony hadn't before. There are strange markings made with colored chalk cover the floor and the walls. Heck, there's even a bright pink one on the ceiling. Sigils made of bizarre shapes and intricate designs.

_What the hell are those for?_

Tim's heart drops into his stomach. He doesn't want to know what the Winchester psychos were—are—planning to do with those. Maybe they are using this voodoo magic to control Tony. Wait, that can't be it. There is no such thing as magic. Or maybe these are what brought that _ghost_ currently inhabiting his friend's body. Tim bristles.

_There are no such thing as ghosts._

On the far wall are a pair of French doors. They lead out to what appears to be a hedge maze, but it is the closest thing to safety Tim has seen since they arrived. He picks his away across the room, careful to avoid touching any of those creepy-ass chalk outlines. He tries the door handle, but of course it's locked. He uses his elbow, once, twice to shatter a pane of glass. The wind billowing inside is fresh and cool, comforting. Even though he reaches for the handle outside, it still doesn't work. When he pulls his hand back in, he slices his left palm on a piece of glass.

"Shit," Tim murmurs. _"Shit."_

He sucks at the excess blood, wincing at the hot, metallic taste. While his entire body throbs from the ten rounds with the dining room table, the cut hurts worse than that. It pulses with its own heartbeat.

_I don't have time for this. I need to get the heck out of here._

Accepting he found his way into a dead end, Tim starts to double back. Maybe he'll head upstairs and try his luck with the bedrooms. Or he could always try to help the Winchesters. Who is he kidding? Then, it would just be waiting to see who finishes him off first. The psycho serial killers or his hazing-movie-quoting-turned-homicidal partner. He doesn't like the sound of running into either one.

Tim only makes it halfway across the room before a shadow darkens the doorway. Dreads bubbles up inside him as he recognizes Tony's outline. The cut of his suit and the puff of his hair is right, but his gait is all wrong as are his motions. Tony holds his head high. The sunlight glints off his broad grin as though he is ready to rip Tim apart with his bare hands. He moves into the room, his black eyes surveying the room's markings with derision. He curls his lip back, bares his teeth.

Tim doesn't dare to move. He doesn't dare to breathe.

"Can you believe the Winchesters thought _this_ would work, Timothy?" Tony's laugh is deep and throaty. "That _these_ could contain _me."_ There's that chuckle again. It makes Tim's skin crawl.

Tim doesn't know what the hell he is talking about. Whatever is on the walls looks like something kids scribble on the blacktop during recess. For all he knows, it could be gobble-dee-gook that is some sort of freaky, serial killer hopscotch.

Tony takes a moment to study a sigil at his feet. "I will so enjoy showing John Winchester and Leroy Gibbs that their juvenile games don't work."

"Why are you after Gibbs anyway?" Tim blurts out.

Tony's head pops up. If his eyes weren't jet black, Tim thinks he might see amusement dancing through them. Even though he is fixed with that stare, Tim struggles to swallow his fear. He raises his chin, but the motion only makes Tony chuckle again.

"Aren't we curious, Timothy?" he asks.

Tim holds his ground. "If you're going to kill me, shouldn't I know why?"

Tony cups his left hand to his chin, silently appraising Tim. When Tim does—or doesn't—do something that he expects, he nods approvingly. Then, he slinks closer. Tim shrinks back, moving his hands instinctively up to protect himself. Tony smirks.

"I am as old as light, Timothy," he says carefully. "My needs change as the generations do. I spent lifetimes searching for what could serve my needs appropriately. Not long ago, I came across the perfect –" he seems to search for the right word before settling on " – vessel to inhabit. I had not used it for long before John Winchester and Leroy Gibbs chose to steal what was rightfully mine. It was Leroy Gibbs who put a bullet into my vessel's head before John Winchester tried to banish me. As for you and Anthony and the Winchester brothers, the sins of the father often sully the lives of the sons."

_When I tell Tony that he spent five minutes monologuing, he's going to die._

Tim nearly upchucks at the thought.

_If he hasn't already._

"We aren't Gibbs' sons," Tim barely gets out.

"It is not always blood that defines a familial unit, Timothy. You, most of all, should understand that. You refused to harm this vessel before, even at your own expense." Before Tim can speak, Tony holds up a fist. "We have discussed the matter enough."

When he opens his hand, a pulse of energy slams into Tim. It knocks him to ground, sends him sliding across the hardwood floor. It knocks the wind out of him. His chest heaves as he gasps for air. He struggles to his hands and knees. Underneath his fingers, a patch of ground begins to illuminate. The blood from his palm dripped onto one of the chalk-white sigils. The line turns glittering as though someone is drawing it. By the time it's done, the outline gives off a soft, ghostly glow.

Tim bolts his feet. "What the – "

At the same time, Tony rushes at him. Tim makes a last-ditch attempt to stay alive. Hell, it probably won't work, but it's better than nothing. He grabs Tony by the forearms, whirling him around and giving him a good push. Then, Tim is sprinting for the hallway.

Behind him, he hears a blood curdling scream. Tim doesn't turn back.

"McGee!" Tony yells. "Help!"

It's just a ploy to get him to turn around. Tim _knows_ it, but he can't help it.

"Tim! Help me! _Please!_ " Tony sounds like he is being ripped apart from the inside out.

The voice is so much like Tony that it makes Tim stop dead. When he turns back, Tony kneels in the center of the sigil. His head is bowed, hair falling over his eyes.

Tim takes a tentative step forward. "Tony?"

At that moment, someone grabs him from behind. Tim doesn't even get a chance to react before his left arm is hauled his body, pinning his right to his chest. He starts struggling right away, but the hold just tightens. He goes to stamp on the person's foot, but they seem to anticipate the action because they immobilize Tim's leg with theirs. It takes the rest of Tim's concentration to remain upright. The person holding him brings a talisman in front of them. Tim recognizes the grimy arm of Sam's hoodie.

"Help me, McGee!" Tony yells.

"Tony," Tim rasps.

"That's not your friend, Sparky," Dean says, moving into Tim's vision. "You got him, Sam?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice comes from behind Tim. "Just don't do to this one what you did to the last one."

"Don't torch the meat suit." Dean's expression hardens. "Got it."

"Gibbs will kill you."

Dean shoots his brother a dirty look. "I said I got it, Sammy!"

Trying to take advantage of the distraction, Tim resists. Sam just jerks Tim tighter against his body. A deep bruise Tim didn't know was there aches in his chest. He barely manages to pull a breath.

In the middle of the sigil, Tony rises. When he tries to walk out of the marking, he bumps into an invisible wall. He turns to watch the spectacle in front of him. His expression is slightly amused and mildly annoyed. His face is firmly fixed in Dean's direction.

When Dean moves closer, he holds his shotgun at the ready. When appears to deem Tony no longer a threat, he drops it to the ground. Then, he pulls the book from earlier out of his jacket. The loose pages have been stuffed back into the bindings haphazardly. The back pockets of his jeans bulge as though he might have stashed some of his papers in there. After seeming to find what he is looking for, he opens his mouth. From nowhere, a sudden wind kicks up. It tousles Tim's hair, whips at Sam's sweatshirt, sends the pages of Dean's book flipping. He riffles through them again, trying to find a specific page.

"Damn it!" Dean growls.

"Come on, Dean," Sam snaps. "Get to it already."

"I'm working on it, Sammy!"

The wind grows even more violent. A loud _whoosh_ echoes from the fireplace as the embers burst to life. The fire roars into the chimney. Sam drags Tim back towards the doorway. The talisman never falters.

"Anytime now would be great, Dean!" he yells.

"Give me a second!" he shouts back.

"We don't have a second!"

The fire starts to billow into the room like a flame thrower. The temperature climbs and it makes sweat pour down Tim's back. Thick smoke slowly fills the room. Behind him, Sam coughs raggedly.

Tony merely stands in the center of the sigil, smirking.

Dean finds the page he is looking for. Holding the book open, he hurriedly recites: " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion_ _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_  
 _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte_ _et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te._  
 _Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."_

The wind grows even greater. The windows rattle in their panes as though they're trying to escape. In the sigil, Tony drops to his knees, writhing and groaning.

"Stop! You're hurting him!" Tim yells.

He bucks against Sam's hold, but it's too tight to break. Tim helplessly watch whatever the hell these two are doing to his friend. His stomach churns. The air grows thicker and it's hard for him to breathe.

_We're so dead. We're so dead._

Overhead, the ceiling twists with what appears to be angry storm clouds. The chandelier whips dangerously back and forth, its little crystals jumping and dancing. The fire licks at the mantle.

Dean keeps going: " _Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._  
 _Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine,_  
 _quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos."_

On his hands and knees, Tony is curling into himself. When Dean takes a breath, Tony manages to raise his head. His grin is savage and pain-filled. What looks like blood is slicked across his teeth.

"I'll be seeing you, Dean," he says hoarsely.

Dean pauses for a moment.

The fire grows even larger and with it, the smoke makes it difficult to even what's happening. One of the glass panes explodes. Splinters of glass fly across the room. Tim turns his head away, shielding his face as best he can. Several more erupt, one after the other, in rapid-fire.

"Tony!" Tim bellows.

"Finish it, Dean!" Sam yells.

And that snaps Dean back into action. " _Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri."_

At that moment, Tony throws his head back. His body freezes, arms out and back rigid. A thick black cloud explodes from his mouth, circling around him before funneling into the sky. As he lands limply on the floor, the fire extinguishes itself and the room grows dark.

Dean laughs with relief. "See? I toldja I wouldn't torch the meat suit, Sammy."

Sam doesn't seem amused. "How did the shedim know your name, Dean?"

Before Dean responds, Tim manages to process what happened just enough to react. He fights against Sam with everything he has. Sam tucks away the talisman and doubles down on his grip.

"Tony?! Tony! What did you do to him?" Tim yelps.

"I kicked out the thing who tried to turn your friend into a meat suit, Sparky," Dean says as though it explains everything. "We helped him."

"You call _that_ – " Tim jerks his chin at Tony's prone figure "— helping him!?"

When Tim bucks again, Sam grunts. "We need to get them out of here."

"Right." Moving into the sigil, Dean crouches next to Tony. He places his hand on Tony's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey Chief. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

Instead of rousing quietly, Tony comes up swinging. He kicks his legs out, catching Dean in the back. Both men tumble to the ground. With the element of surprise on his side, Tony has his cuffs out as he scrambles for Dean. But it doesn't take much for Dean to maneuver so Tony's wrestling move sends him onto his stomach. Dean makes overpowering Tony and cuffing his hands behind his back look easy.

Tim doesn't get to see much else before Sam hustles him out of the room. They head through the house and despite being held hostage by a serial killer, Tim feels much more at ease now. Even though smoke clings around them, the air seems lighter and cleaner. It's easier to breathe. Finally, Tim feels at peace. Sunlight pours through the old windows. Sam guides Tim through the front door and down the porch steps. The fresh air is cold and refreshing. The sun, almost blinding. They end up next to the Charger.

"Sorry about this." Sam sounds like he actually means it.

"Sorry about what?" Tim chokes out.

He half-expects to be thrown to the ground and shot in the back. But instead, Sam plucks the handcuffs from Tim's belt and releases him just to cuff his hands behind his back in one fluid motion. A half-second later, Tim is tossed face-first into the backseat of the Charger. Of course, Sam got the keys out of his pocket. Or Dean stole them from Tony. Or Zoroaster unlocked the door when they asked because _fuck,_ Tim has no idea where the keys are anymore.

_I don't even know what just happened._

Tim barely has time to right himself before Tony lands beside him. The car door slams and they're trapped. Tim is locked in the backseat with Tony. He backpedals as far as he can until he squeezes himself uncomfortably against the door. As though oblivious to Tim, Tony is already trying to open the door. Even though it never works for their suspects, Tony can't accept it won't work for them either.

He groans. "What did they do to me, McGee? I have the headache from hell."

Tim just stares raptly at him. He seems so much like himself, so much like Tony. While his voice is normal, Tim can't stand the thought of his friend not being in there.

"Did I hit my head?" Tony slams his body against the door. "Did they drug me or something?"

Tim falters.

"Shit, McGee. Now is not the time to lose your head. I need a sit-rep, _now!"_

When Tim still doesn't speak up, Tony stills. When he looks— _actually,_ looks—at Tim, the younger man nearly passes out with relief. Tony's eyes are their normal hazel, complete with whites and pupils. He never thought he would be so happy to see the man responsible for hazing him, torturing him, and super-gluing him to his desk. He never thought he'd be so happy to see _Tony_ again.

At the sight of Tim, Tony's expression darkens further.

"Did they hurt you, McGee?" he growls.

Tim shakes his head. "N-n-no."

"Then what the hell happened to you?"

"I-uh…" He can't bring himself to say, _You're the one who nearly beat me to death._

Thankfully, Tim doesn't have to reply because Dean slips into the driver's seat. His expression is nonplussed as he starts the car. Behind them, a black Impala peels down the driveway. Dean huffs.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "This must be pretty important if you let your brother drive your car. You've killed people for less, right?"

"If that's what you want to believe," Dean says flatly.

"You and your brother are a regular _Thelma and Louise,_ huh?"

Dean's eyes meet Tony's in the rearview mirror.

"It didn't end well for them," Tony says gravely. "And it won't end well for you."

"I'd consider it ending well if I got to spend some quality time with Geena Davis." He surveys Tony for a long moment before grinning. "I bet you feel the same way, Chief."

Despite himself, Tony laughs. Tim just wants to know why the hell they're still talking about movies and pretending like nothing really happened. And who the heck is Geena Davis?

"What happened in there?" Tim blurts out. "What in the hell was that?"

Tony shoots him an angry look as though to say _Stay quiet and they might forget about you, Probie._

"Already told you, Sparky," Dean says flatly. "Shedim killed a bunch of people on that naval base. Then, it tried to kill you and your friend. We got it before you got dead."

_Because that explains everything._

Tim feels just short of cracking up. "Uh, thanks?"

Dean nods. "You're welcome."

His cell phone rings shrilly. After answering it, he listens for a long moment. "Hey, Gibbs. Dean Winchester here."

Tony shoots Tim a shocked glance. Tony mouths, _How the hell does he know Gibbs?_ All Tim can do is half-shrug because their boss being best friends with a serial killer is less weird than an ancient demon who tried to kill him and Tony because of an old grudge against Gibbs. Hell, Gibbs knowing Dean Winchester is the least weird thing that happened today.

"No, I haven't been in touch with my dad for a while," Dean continues. "I'm sure he's fine though. But look, Gibbs, this wasn't really a social call."

A long pause when Dean's eyes slip to the review again. He surveys Tim and Tony while listening to the other end of the phone line. His expression remains unreadable.

"You really need to keep an eye on your people."


End file.
